Instant Karma
by ShannonSto
Summary: Response to the Improv challenge at Unbound. The first and last lines are given, the rest is mine.


**A/N**:  Oh my, what else is there to say?  The events of the last several days have left me with every imaginable emotion. I've been all over the place with it.  I'm still holding onto a small hope that Jorja will be back and the universe will be right again.  In the meantime, I wrote this fic as an outlet for my own frustration and sadness.  Passive-aggressive, much?  Humor is how I cope. Thanks, Psyched, for betaing, making me feel okay about posting this one and others, and to all the folks at PwF for being so supportive.  The people of this fandom are the best.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own C.S.I., but since the blockheads who do obviously don't know what to do with it, I'll do whatever I wish.

**Help**:   Please, please, please don't give up yet!  Les Moonves and the others at CBS need to understand that the ratings, and ultimately profits, will suffer if they insist on stabbing their viewers in the back like this.  Continue to bury them in e-mails, letters and telephone calls.  For more suggestion for supporting JF and GE, visit irishdachsie dot com slash forums.  If ever we needed to unite, it's now.

Mr. Leslie Moonves  
President/CEO  
CBS Television  
7800 Beverly Boulevard   
Los Angeles, CA 90036

At the same address,

Ms. Nancy Tellem  
President, CBS Entertainment

(323) 575-2345—a voicemail rant line. Use it. Often.

VIACOM PRODUCTIONS  
PHONE (310) 234-5000  
FAX (310) 234-5059  
10880 Wilshire Blvd., Ste. 1101  
Los Angeles, CA 90024  
Perry Simon President Viacom Television

Or leave viewer feedback at 

e-mail:    leslie dot moonves at tvc dot cbs dot com

or ntellem at cbs dot com

Also, none of this is their fault, but let them know how saddened you are to see this happen:

William Petersen  
C.S.I. c/o CBS Television  
7800 Beverly Blvd., Room 18  
Los Angeles, CA 90036-2615  
  
Carol Mendelsohn, Executive Producer (or whoever you want to address it to)  
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation  
Santa Clarita Studios  
25135 Anza Dr.  
Valencia, CA 91355  
  
Her fax: (661)294-4925  
ATTN: Carol Mendelsohn, Executive Producer

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Kiss me…"   The Texan C.S.I. demanded with an exaggerated pucker.

"Okay, I'll mark down July 18, 2004 as the day Nick Stokes finally lost what was left of his mind," Sara teased with an exaggerated eye roll.  Testing Nick's new breath mint was not something she was willing to do, no matter how irresistibly delicious he claimed it was.

"Excuse me," Grissom broke in, an irritated edge evident in his voice. "Would you two like an assignment?"  Without waiting for an answer he pushed the assignment slip toward them.  "Missing Hollywood bigwig.  No one's seen him since yesterday, and his assistant's getting concerned.  It could be pretty high profile."

_And Catherine didn't want it?_  Sara bit her lip to refrain from vocalizing her thought.  "Got it."

She quickly grabbed the slip and headed for the door.  "I'm driving," she called dibs on the keys to the Denali.

"Hey!" Nick protested, joining her in the hall.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"He said he was going up to the room to prepare for the press conference tomorrow, um, well, now tonight."  Martin Tipton's assistant, Jennifer Piers, shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other.

"What time was that?" Nick asked.

"Around two.  It was right after he left the blackjack table."

Sara gave her a sympathetic nod. "Can you think of anyone who might want him dead?"

"Oh, God, only _everyone._  Ever since he fired those actors, he's been besieged with hate mail and nasty phone calls.  He came here to escape until it blows over."

"Does anyone else have access to his hotel room?"

Jennifer shook her head mournfully. "Not that I know of."

"Do you know what he was planning to talk about at the press conference?"

"The firings, I'd imagine. He knew he couldn't avoid it forever."

"Yeah," Nick replied. "I read about that.  I'm sure he didn't make too many friends."

"Listen, um, are you guys about done with me?  I have to let the network know what's going on."

"Yes. We'll let you know if we need anything further."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"I hate dusting hotel rooms," Nick groused.  "Must be a million prints."

Sara switched off the light and shone the ALS over the bed. "Looks like Martin forgot that he was married."

"Man oh man," Nick  marveled. "This guy fired two popular actors from the highest rated show on television.  That takes balls."

"Balls? Or stupidity?" Sara arched an eyebrow. "Sounds like professional suicide to me."

"Both, I guess."

"Made some enemies, I'm sure," Sara mused.  "Shouldn't they have started filming for the fall season?"

"I think so."

"So our list of suspects, apart from the actors and people associated with them, also includes the show's writers and producers.  They have to trash all the scripts and stories they had so far and start from scratch."

"Can't rule out Mrs. Tipton, either.  Maybe she knew her hubby was shagging someone else."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The CSIs left the hotel having taken into evidence several fingerprints, DNA samples from the bedding, and Tipton's luggage and laptop computer.  They grabbed a bite to eat on their way back to the lab, then began examining the items collected for potential clues.  It wasn't long before Sara was busily scrolling through the executive's personal e-mail. 

"This is unbelievable," she waved over her shoulder at Nick. "I've never seen such a huge volume of mail in just twenty-four hours. And this is his personal account, not the one with the network."

Nick skimmed over a sampling of the letters Sara had printed. "Wow, these actors have a lot fans."

"And the fans are very supportive of them.  There's not one e-mail here praising Tipton for his tough stance.  In spite of everything, it has to be gratifying to them to know that people feel so strongly about this," Sara speculated.

"Can you imagine how much snail mail he's getting? Woooo," Nick whistled appreciatively.

"These range from obscenity-riddled threats to intelligently written ultimatums and pleas."

"If this guy has half a brain," Nick opined, "he'll cut a deal and get these guys back on the show pronto.  If these protesters go through with their threats to boycott the show, he's killed his own best meal ticket."

"Tell him that when we find him," Sara grinned.

A series of shrill alternating beeps startled them both.  Sara looked at her pager, while Nick silenced his own.  "It's Detective Wharton."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

As they filed into the interrogation room, the CSIs exchanged curious glances.  Martin Tipton sat slumped wearily over the table. 

"NHP picked him up out near Mt. Charleston," the detective informed them.

"Mr. Tipton, can you tell us what happened to you?" Sara asked gently.

"I, I'm not sure."

"What do you remember?"

The man seemed to have difficulty making eye contact with them.  "I, uh, went for a ride with my…_friend._  I spent the night at her place in Mt. Charleston.  I was headed back to town for the press conference, and suddenly she stops the car in the middle of nowhere and kicks me out."

"Why would she do that?"

He looked to the floor. "She said I canned her favorite character.  She was hoping I'd miss the press conference and lose my job."

"You were never kidnapped?" Nick asked, incredulous.

"She dumped me at the side of the road!"

"And if you try to prosecute, your wife will find out about your indiscretion."

"You were with her on your own free will," Sara pointed out to him.  "You weren't detained. You weren't harmed."

"Yeah, but I'll bet the nightmare I had last night recurs.  In the dream, I'm with her, and then she's laughing in the Jaws of Life…"


End file.
